Think of England
by FragilePuzzle
Summary: The streets of America were cold compared to the dimly-lit corridors of Wammy's, but Mello manages to find solace in an unexpected way. Rated for later chapters.


It was dark. Cold. Rainy Winchester alleyways gave away to bitter, icy cement and skyscrapers; business people by day and whores by night. Rare was it that he got a first glance, let alone a second. Real life had turned out to be nothing close to what went on behind the tightly-sealed doors of Wammy's.

While he might have thought that he had hungered before, he had not. While he might have thought he had shivered before, he had not. But if there was one thing he was absolutely sure of, it was that he would make sure to look back on his drastic move, his life-changing decision, and not regret a thing.

**x.x.x**

"Hey. Kid. Up." It was a tweedy sort of man that was speaking to him, circular spectacles riding low on the bridge of his oddly misshapen nose – it looked as though it'd been broken and cracked back into place one too many times.

Glancing around, the petite blonde realized that the previously-bustling diner was now vacated, spare fourteen or fifteen burly men. He'd been too busy indulging himself in the leftover coffee the matronly waitress had a habit of slipping him when he wandered in to escape the chilly outside air to notice. The slush-like, cream-colored drink clinked against the platter it'd been served on as he drew it away from his lips, swallowing slowly, the grains of excessive faux-sugar packets he'd added to make it more bearable seeming to crawl down his throat, coarse.

"He deaf?" Hyuk hyuk. The comment of a dark-skinned man with long dreadlocks elicited a few chuckles. Mello, however, found nothing so much as remotely amusing or witty in the statement. The man with glasses sneered in a weasel-like way.

"Little girl, get up. That's Boss' seat."

Boss? He didn't know who that was, but he found himself quickly aware of two things – one: he didn't have to move, this was a free country; and two: he was not a girl. In what Near would have so kindly addressed as a 'fit of pigheadishness,' the boy sent the other a sour stare and did not rise.

"No." It was simple enough. He barely caught the shocked eyes of the waitress as he took another sip of his drink. It was easy to tell she was trying to subtly get him to shut up and move. "I was here first. You and your boss can sit somewhere else."

"Look, kid," he started, practically snarling. "Get up before I make-"

His grating voice was interrupted by silky, booming laughter. Before Mello could place who this new voice belonged to, a tall man – big, too, bigger than anybody he'd ever laid eyes on – moved in such a way that the men around him parted like the Red Sea.

"Gettin' lip from a kid, Neylon? Come on. Thing's tiny."

Mello was immediately drawn to the boisterous male, the way he seemed to inspire both awe and fear in even those who seemed as though they were his cohorts. Tracing along his meaty fingers, the blonde's eyes had to hop over rock after rock, some as large as the pad of his thumb, glistening and twinkling as this man moved to readjust the lapel of his well-tailored suit.

"I like your gusto, kid. Neylon here ain't very scary, is he?"

Shaking his head lightly, Mello attempted to keep his face stuck in such a way that he might as well have been the poster child of defiance – hoping that it would disguise the way beads of sweat were forming at his hairline. All eyes were on him, spare Mary's, who was looking away as though she was witnessing a car wreck she was powerless to stop and instead busying herself by rubbing a plate meticulously against her worn, forest-green apron.

"And what about me? You think I'm scary?" It was not a threat, simply a question.

"You must have done something to make these guys practically wet themselves when you talk." His low voice was now much clearer, indicating to the others that he was, in fact, of the male persuasion. It almost looked as though this boss, or whomever, was contemplating what the teen had just said before he took it as a compliment and roared in laughter. The boy jumped, coffee cup clattering lightly against the laminated surface of the table.

"I like your style, kid." Sliding into the booth across from the haggard child, he appeared comically large, hefty form taking up not only the physical space of the vinyl seat but his commanding aura wafting into the air around him. "Tell you what. I'm in a good mood – feelin' generous," he extrapolated, throwing his arm over the heavily-cushioned seat-back. "What do you want to eat?"

Before taking into consideration that it might very well be rude of him to refuse such an unprecendented offer, he retorted with a self-assured "Nothing, thanks."

"You got no meat on your bones. When's the last time you had a meal?" Mello didn't respond, bringing the porcelain cup to his lips, despite the fact it was empty, if just to entertain himself and indicate that he did not intend on answering the personal question.

"Boss asked-"

"Shut up, Jack."

And he did. Almost resisting the urge to smile at the dumbstruck look plastered across the subordinate's face, Mello turned back to this man. Boss, what-have-he, the blonde was not concerned with titles but much more obliged to answer now that he discovered the other was, or at least seemed to be, legitimately interested. A light sigh escapes his chapped lips as he feigns a bored expression.

"The last time I had a meal was about six months ago. But I ate yesterday, if that's what you meant." Sunken-in orbs refused to leave the gaze of those chocolate-brown eyes of the other, shadowed by his prominent, brutish brow.

"Well, come on, kid. I'm not askin' again. I'm sure you've looked over the menu plenty times."

Mello's mouth watered, making sure to swallow carefully before he spoke, once again feigning that air of authority. As though he were not nearly as intimidated as he was. As though he was not afraid of being picked up by the scruff of the neck and thrown outside like yesterday's trash, or worse.

"My name's not kid. It's Mello, and I want a piece of chocolate cake with hot fudge."

This man laughed again. He was certainly amused easily.

"You heard him. Let's get some food out here!" Waving his arm out, he gestured to the room around him, the eyes of the men slowly drifting over and away from Mello upon a casual glance from their boss. Who was this man? Obviously not somebody he should want something to do with. But Mello had a talent for longing for the most undesirable things.

"What's your name?" was his only question, slender index finger dragging over the chipped handle of his empty cup, absolutely and completely enticed. How was it possible that one could simply scare people away with their very presence? He hadn't even acted in a foul manner. He was a big fish.

"I'm Rod. Rod Ross."

"Why did everybody leave when you came in here?"

Snorting, he ran his thumb along his lower lip, staring down at the small boy.

"Look, kid- er, Mello. How old are you?"

"Fifteen." There was quite a proud tone to his voice. "I turned fifteen last December."

Voracious laughter. Again. Mello's face wrinkled up in mild irritation.

"You're just a twerp, but you got balls. Why you here by yourself? Cuttin' school?"

"I don't go to school." His voice was a little more hushed than before, as though he was mildly worried somebody might turn him in. Whenever a police officer had questioned him, he'd simply assured them he was home-schooled and on his way to the park, or for groceries; whatever had most suited him. Certainly, most didn't care, but the excuse was always nice to have present.

"Where do you live?"

Mello shrugged his shoulders.

"You some sort of street urchin?"

"I guess."

"Ain't got parents?" Mello shook his head. It was not a fact he was embarrassed to admit. "Hell, you look like you could be ten. How come you haven't gotten your little twerp-ass beat? I'm sure there are some kids around here just itchin' to fight anybody they see walkin' by."

"I know martial arts."

"Some kinda' Jackie Chan?"

"No."

"It was a joke."

"I know."

By this time, there was food on the table. Mello had received his slice of cake, much bigger than he might have expected. It wasn't exactly a slice, more of a quarter of the entire cake than anything else. In front of the burly man, Rod, a sizzling steak was placed. Steak in the afternoon? He couldn't decide if it was a gesture of manliness or simply tacky.

"You look like you wanna fuck that, not eat it."

"Chocolate's my favorite," he explained, grabbing his fork and stabbing into the cake. It practically melted on his tongue, it was as though he'd never tasted anything so delicious in his life. The hot fudge ran into each crevice and crease in his mouth before he would allow himself to swallow. God, he tried to savor it, he really did, but it was hard not to jam bite after bite after bite past his greedy lips.

"So you got no parents and no place to go?"

A light nod of agreement and a gaze up to Mary, who'd brought him a sweating glass of water. She almost seemed scared by him. While he hated to admit it, he enjoyed the feeling. It was reminiscent of the other children from the orphanage after he'd walked away from a particularly rough scuffle. They knew his rage was not directed at them but couldn't help but wonder if he might snap. But he'd done nothing to her, Mary, that was. Could it be simply the presence of this 'boss' that put her on edge?

"No relatives?"

"I was at an orphanage before this. In England. I ran away."

"How'd you get all the way over here to L.A?"

"Boat."

"No shit," he mused aloud. "You want a place to stay? You're gonna have to work for it but ain't nothing too hard. Neylon can handle it, so you should be able to."

"Place to stay?" His voice was like an echo. Work? That meant there was a ladder to climb. Working for this man could lead him places, should he be allowed to exhibit his talents. Places that would impose this idea on others, the idea that if you so much as looked at him the wrong way, you might get punched in the teeth. No more test scores and useless numbers. Real, genuine power.

"Yeah. You come work for me. Got some jobs we could use a kid like you for."

He set down his fork, eyes sparkling – though it might not have been childish joy responsible for those unsettling glimmers.

"Tell me more."


End file.
